


Confess

by Jezunya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, New Relationship, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Not Sherlock's Area, Present Tense, Saying I Love You, Sherlock is really nothing but a ball of fluff in a big coat, this entire story hinges on a criminal justice pun, with a dash of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t respond the first time John says it: “I love you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confess

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed & unBritpicked. This is one of those ideas that came out of nowhere and then I couldn't stop until I had it all down on paper. <3
> 
> (You might recognize Sherly's first line from ASiP ;) )

Sherlock doesn’t respond the first time John says it: “ _I love you._ ”

He blinks several times, rapidly, pale eyes fixed and staring at John from the far side of the kitchen table, head cocked ever so slightly to one side: _does not compute_.

John is abashed, embarrassed, begins stuttering an apology as he covers his face with his hands, hunching over his breakfast, stammers out an excuse, an, “Obviously, you’re my best friend, I mean, it doesn’t have to, if you’re uncomfortable, I, uh—” But things have been going so well, splendidly, ever since that night nearly a week ago, ever since they’d come home laughing and high on adrenaline and the stars had finally aligned and the pieces had all finally fallen into place and they’d finally fallen into bed together. It had happened again, twice, since then, and just last night a third time, and John had been so happy when they’d woke up together this morning that he’d thought he would burst, and saying it, _finally_ saying it had seemed the only recourse.

Sherlock blinks one more time, seems to shake himself, frowns minutely at John’s stumbling words. “No, it’s…” He trails off, considers for a moment, at last concludes with, “…fine.”

 

* * *

 

It’s _fine_.

Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it?

For a moment there, John had thought he’d scared off the best thing that’s ever happened to him, the man he’d realised long ago he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, long before any of _this_ , whatever _this_ is.

Sherlock doesn’t _do_ relationships. He certainly doesn’t do romance, not in any classical sense of the word, flowers and serenades and candlelit dinners, not unless Angelo or Mrs Hudson insists and does it for him.

But then, Sherlock didn’t do sex either, not for as long as John’s known him, not until now. He _has done_ , of course, in the past, dimly remembered partners at university or during his junkie days, faceless bodies to share a high with, nameless experiments, _seeing what all the fuss was about_ , as the detective had told John one hazy, post-coital evening.

But since then, since deciding that it was more trouble than it was worth, at least sober, and then since getting clean, since finding a new obsession to occupy his mind, Sherlock just... hadn’t. Hadn’t seen the point. Hadn’t felt the urge.

Until now. Apparently.

Now, he crawls into bed with John, slides between the sheets already completely naked, scoots up against John’s back in the middle of the night, coaxes him awake when he’s horny and triumphant off a successful experiment with a hand down the front of John’s pants and hot, open-mouthed kisses pressed to John’s shoulders. Other times, he simply sneaks in and curls up there beneath the blankets, slotting his head under John’s chin and intertwining his limbs with John’s as if they were made to fit like this, puzzle pieces cut from the same stock and finally reunited. Sherlock waits until morning, then, waits until John wakes and looks down and finds him there, clinging and warm and rumpled and lost to the world, and then he smiles when John kisses him awake, smiles and opens himself up and holds on.

It’s one of those mornings now, quiet and warm and slow, a month since John first said it. The words tumble out on their own again now, “ _I love you,_ ” murmured against swaths of pale skin, “ _I love you, Sherlock_ ,” brushed over ebony curls, “ _God, I love you,_ ” pressed into quivering flesh, “ _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ ” repeated over and over and over until John finally realises what he’s saying, realises that Sherlock has been quiet all this time, sighing and moaning in appreciation, but disregarding the words he must have been able to feel spelt out against his skin.

At John’s abrupt silence, Sherlock hums and says, “I know,” and pulls John’s face toward his to kiss him again.

And that’s—

It’s fine.

 

* * *

 

It really is fine.

John loves Sherlock, loves him completely, loves his childlike curiosity and his cool, smug arrogance, his bitingly precise insults when the Yarders are being particularly obtuse and his sweet, shy smile when John compliments him. John loves him, utterly and without reservation.

And Sherlock... likes having John around. He likes their arrangement, anyway, seems to like the new shape their life has taken on, still comes to John for comfort and friendship and sex and sometimes for nothing at all. Sometimes, Sherlock just walks up and climbs into John’s lap when he’s reading in his chair or pulls him down onto the sofa on top of the detective’s sprawled form, and it’s for no reason at all, not sex, not an experiment, just to be there, together, to be close.

And it seems fine, really fine, that John loves him. It even seems fine that John tells him so.

“I love you,” John says, leaning up to kiss Sherlock, briefly, before they part ways, chasing down two different leads, tissue samples and bicycle treads, neither supposed to be immediately dangerous but at least one that will probably turn out to be before the night is done.

Sherlock doesn’t object to John mixing romance, _love_ , with the Work. He just blinks down at John when he pulls away, eyes a little wide, and says, “I _know_.” And then he flashes a broad, shark-like grin before turning and dashing away.

The excitement in his voice, the light in Sherlock’s eyes when he’d said that – it’s because of the case, of course. Of course. A locked room murder and no fingerprints anywhere but for two bloody handprints on the ceiling. Possible long-lost siblings. A bike messenger with a deadly package. Of course that’s what’s got Sherlock so thrilled. It’s nothing to do with what John said. Nothing at all. It’s just... it’s fine.

 

* * *

 

The case does turn dangerous and violent, of course, _of course_ – and then afterward, back at home, after the A &E has finally released Sherlock to John’s care and Sherlock’s stuffed the orange shock blanket into the fireplace to use as kindling at some later date, after everything, John is leaning over Sherlock to inspect the butterfly plasters at his temple. “Think you could leave the crowbar-wielding fiends to me in future?” he mutters, satisfied that at least the swelling seems to have all but disappeared. It was just a glancing blow, and one that had been meant for John anyway, but he still hasn’t quite worked through the gut-wrenching fear at seeing Sherlock leap in front of him like that.

“John,” Sherlock says, and John looks down at his face at last.

He looks so young, staring up at John from the sofa like that, young and vulnerable, eyes wide and brimming with wonder and what John would call emotion on anyone else.

“All right?” John asks, and in response, Sherlock just grabs him and wraps his long arms around John’s middle, burying his face in the front of John’s shirt. “Hey!” John exclaims, then, softer, one hand rising to card through dark curls, “Hey... Sherlock...”

The detective mumbles something against John’s stomach before finally turning his face to the side so he can breathe.

“What was that?” John asks gently, one hand on the back of Sherlock’s head while the other rubs a slow circle between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock inhales deeply, his ribcage expanding against John’s thighs, and then he breathes, “You love me.”

“What?” John asks stupidly as Sherlock tilts his head back to meet John’s gaze, chin balanced against John’s sternum. He looks up at John with eyes bright and wide, a tremulous smile dancing about his mouth, looking exhilarated and happy and... and like he’s just found a pair of bloody handprints on the ceiling of a locked room.

“You needn’t go around repeating it all the time, of course,” Sherlock smiles up at him. “The first time was admittedly a bit of a surprise, but once it was brought to my attention, the evidence is... rather overwhelming...”

“Evidence?” John echoes, both palms cupping the back of Sherlock’s head, and feels something warm cracking open inside his chest, very near where Sherlock is leaned against him.

Of course it comes down to evidence. Sherlock Holmes has little use for mere words, assertions that could prove false even if they are whole-heartedly believed. What he cares about is evidence, and in this case the evidence that shows him how much John loves him: patching him up, making him tea, laughing with him, appreciating what he does, what his mind is capable of, wanting to be with him, wanting to take care of him, just wanting... him.

John thinks of the billow of a greatcoat as its wearer jumps between him and a swinging crowbar, thinks of silent midnight trysts and murmured good mornings, of pale eyes that continually seek him out for guidance, advice, an opinion, a shared joke... Thinks of Sherlock clinging to him now, of the fine shudders rippling through his form as he says he’s overwhelmed by John’s love for him.

John swallows, pushes the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead, answers the detective’s adoring smile with one of his own. “It is, isn’t?”

“Hm?” Sherlock’s eyes fall closed as John’s fingers scratch at his scalp. He looks about ready to fall asleep right there.

John smiles down at him. “Overwhelming.”

 

* * *

 

Later, much later, they’re cocooned in bed and John has set an alarm for three hours from now to make sure Sherlock’s head wound hasn’t turned into a dangerous concussion. The detective is wearing the old RAMC shirt he’s long since claimed as his own and his head is tucked up against John’s shoulder, breaths already growing slow and even and content.

“Hey,” John says, just on the edge of sleep himself. Something’s still bothering him and it seems it won’t leave him alone until he says it.

“What,” Sherlock responds in that tone that always makes John wonder if he’s awake or sleep talking, if he’ll remember anything he says the next morning.

“It’s just...” John bites his lip, hesitating briefly, and then continues, “It’s called _confessing_ your feelings for a reason, you know.”

Sherlock slits one eye open to frown at him. Actually awake then, good. “A confession is superfluous with sufficient evidence—”

“Oh, shut up,” John sighs, and kisses him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Extra After-the-Credits Ending because this bit didn't fit anywhere in the story but I still like it:
> 
> (“For the record,” John growls, raising himself up on his elbows over Sherlock, “when I tell you I love you, you’re supposed to say, ‘I love you too.’”
> 
> “I don’t see why you have to say it in the first place—” Sherlock starts to argue, but, again, doesn’t get very far.)
> 
> ~
> 
> [My tumblr](http://jezunya.tumblr.com/)


End file.
